


kiss with a fist: part i

by merriell



Series: kiss with a fist [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-10
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-05-04 19:58:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14600580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merriell/pseuds/merriell
Summary: In a world where magic prosper alongside technology, criminals stepped into the light... ST. PETERSBURG, RUSSIA: the city made off bones and humongous cogs that ran the entire country. A birdwatcher herd his family in peace, thinking that the claws were far from the glasses; beneath the shadows, a black cat sat watching in silence.





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Full summary in here: https://merriell.livejournal.com/6924.html

In the dark, rats would come out of hiding.

The dim lighting of the road illuminated the rain drops as it hit against the glass off the empty phone booth. Across the street, from the shadows of the gray building, a hooded figure fell to the street, cutting the drapes of water from covering the street with its hand. He would only stop his steps near the telephone box, only to glance back at the dim streetlight—where a camera was recording the street in solitude.

His hand rose to wipe the droplets of water off his watch.  _ 01:32 am _ . A breath was caught in his throat as a motorcycle crossed the streets; his head reflexively turned away from the street, a hurried motion that shook water off the hood of his raincoat. Only when the growl of the machine grew further away into silence that he dared to lift his head.

But only some rats will come out during the witching hour.

He stepped inside the telephone booth, although the booth itself offer little to protect him against the rain. He picked up the phone and pressed him against his ear… the tooting, regular, almost-calming tone that had never changed across the course of his life enveloped his hearing, greeting his elevated heartbeats. A hand rose and a rate of numbers were pressed. Practiced fingers danced upon the buttons without as much a glance of his eye. His sight was fixed to the streets, carefully watching for any sign of people.

It took a while for the land to connect. A monotone, bored feminine voice surprised him at last, eating the dialing tone away with a gulp of her words: “Hello, may I help you?”

“I have an information to sell.”

A beat passed. He could see his breath fogging up the glass of the telephone booth. His hand itched to write something, but he would offer no evidence that he existed on the world that night. “Let me connect you, Sir,” the monotone voice lurched into a more disinterested tone.

Another tone. And then, a different voice chimed in, deeper: “Hello?”

“I have an information to sell,” he repeated himself.

“And what is this information about?” 

One hand tightened around the telephone—the other trembled slightly in the cold. “There’s a birdwatcher in Moscow,” his voice crackled. He couldn’t believe he was saying the word.

A silence ensued a moment after as the line cut: not into a dial tone, but into silence; a silence that would have disturbed him if he was not told beforehand, but disturbed him anyway. Five minutes passed and he just stared at the fog that formed with every of his heavy breaths. Another minute passed until finally, something disturbed the silence—a cough. 

He turned around and saw a hulking, dark figure of a man with scar on his forehead. “You,” the man asked. “You come with us.”

He followed the hulking figure away from the streets. His head tilted just enough to see the camera on the streetlight, but not enough to absolve his face to whoever was watching. A string of words escaped him. Something too silent to be heard.

The rain was a steady presence in his shoulders, on the top of his head. It was almost a calming presence amidst his busy heart. He glanced to his side, contemplating an escape route. But his steps only moved ahead, following the stranger to whatever awaited him. Blindly. 

The end of his road was a small building with art deco glasses. The stranger let him stepped into the stairs and shoved him ahead inside the building before slamming the door behind him. Another man, another stranger awaited him inside. He searched him but found nothing but a wallet and a glasses. Those went to a dirty cardboard box placed strategically on the table near them.

Then he found himself being manhandled to a room at the end of the corridor. His raincoat dripped water onto the floor, but the other man ignored it. 

The room he was in the next moment was warm. And instantly he was greeted by a crackle from the fireplace and a voice that he knew he heard from the telephone of the booth before. The owner of that voice—a forty-year old guy with a strangely athletic body—looked at him with interest, with recognition, with amusement

He refused the urge to flinch in disgust.

“I have an information to sell about a birdwatcher in Moscow,” there it was, the words, again. He rehearsed it in the mirror before he greeted the night. Yet it still felt sour in his mouth.

There are thousands of reason why they wouldn’t believe him, you’d think. This was an anonymous tip. That he was an unreliable source. That they could very well not believe him. But there was one reason they would. They knew what he was. 

“I’ve been wondering if you’ve chickened out,” the old man mused.

They knew him. The line was special. The numbers were special. It was passed in secret under the tables. His presence was known to them already, he knew. 

But it was not from them he was hiding. In here, he was safe. He closed his eyes before pulling his hood down. His breath was no longer fogged. His heartbeats had calmed down. His eyes stared straight in front of him.

In the dark, rats will come out to anywhere they could sniff out the riches.

But only some rats will sell out the people he held dear.


	2. SKY

Cielo Seasons knew one thing about his future: that he wasn’t dreaming to end in such a place.

The stairs of the building seemed like it was never going to end. He could feel his breath disappearing from his lungs alongside to whatever energy he had before he decided to ascend at the stairs. His hair was sticking stubbornly on his forehead when he reached the eighth floor; he could feel the cold sweat on his neck and on his back, and he braced himself against the railing, legs trembling slightly underneath him.

“Are you sure this was the right floor?” Behind him, not even bothering to take the last set of stairs, was his breathless partner, scowling at him so fiercely Cielo was scared he was going to wrestle him against the stairs.

“Yes, I’m sure, Richard Illyich,” he sighed the reply, taking his hand away from the railing. “Come on, let’s not waste our time here.”

“We should’ve waited for the elevator,” he heard Richard grumble behind him. Politely, all Cielo gave as a reply was a roll of his eyes, not wanting to start another argument when he already struggled to stand. He took the emergency door handle and pulled it open without as much as a glance back.

He wished that he could have just Eluded earlier.

The eighth floor, an art gallery owned by a German expatriate, greeted him with a smell of citrus as soon as he entered. A cool air blew from the air conditioner strategically placed above him, sending a shiver straight to his spine. Despite that, he dismissed it and walked straight to the receptionist, where a blonde girl sat behind it, painting her nails with a dark pink color.

“Good morning,” he greeted first. Behind him, he heard more grumbles that he’d grown familiar with, and chosen to ignore after a while. “We’re from the Moscow Police Department. We’re here for Sergei Azarov? We’ve been informed that he was visiting Alexander Fischer for a purchase of an art piece.”

The receptionist regarded him with a forced smile before picking up the phone. “Please wait,” she dismissively told them as Richard fell beside him, leaning against the receptionist’s desk while staring disinterestedly at the cluttered state of it.

“Alexander Fischer sounds more American than German, don’t you think?”

“Maybe,” Cielo replied disinterestedly.

“Spoilsport,” Richard muttered before turning to the woman as she put down the telephone.

The lady looked at them, full of disdain—Cielo glanced at the smudged end of her nails, tragically murdered by the phone she was holding, and resisted the urge to apologize—before she flatly told them to follow her. She walked ahead of them across the citrus-scented gallery. They passed paintings and art installations displayed in perfect lighting, even though Cielo’s eyes were trained at his shoes, not interested in peering over the colors.

Their steps stopped at the end of the gallery, where a door was placed beside a corridor that led to the only natural lighting in the gallery. Outside, Cielo saw the weak morning light of the sun leering over the snowy paths of Moscow, and found himself wishing that he was at home, sitting near the fireplace, reading Dostoyevsky in the calmness of his empty house. But here he still was, in an art gallery at the center of Moscow, chasing over a lead he knew would go nowhere.

Once she opened the door, both of them stalked inside, Cielo first, and there they were: a middle-aged man with crow feet he could see ten steps away, and staring at one of the paintings displayed at the room, was a much younger man that was only a few years older than him. Both of them glanced to his partner and him as they entered the gallery.

“So, what is this about?” The middle-aged man broke the silence. Cielo glanced at the gold-gilded name sign on his desk. _Alexander Fischer._ He sat up from his cushioned chair to an alert state, but his body loosened at the wave of dismissal from the younger man, who he knew was Sergei Azarov.

Cielo sighed. He did not enjoy this part. Luckily, his partner knew that—a grin broke in his face before Richard started, quite gleefully: “There has been a robbery in Grigori Kurkov’s house. We’ve had a tip from one of the party’s waiter that you were among the last ones seen in that room. We’d like you to go with us to the station.”

“May I ask what had been stolen?” Azarov moved from where he was standing to the seat across of Fischer, his brows furrowing. His hand settled on the backrest of the seat.

“A bust from 340-330 BC,” Cielo answered lightly. He could feel Azarov’s gaze on his skin, but he refused to look at his blue eyes.

“Was it the Athena bust?”

“That would be right, yes.”

“We need you to come with us to the station and give us all you know about the situation,” Richard repeated again, his tone disappearing to a more bored one as his words turned into portocols. “We can wait until you’ve finished your business with Fischer here, if you’d like.”

“Oh, our business is settled, isn’t it, Mr. Fischer?” Azarov glanced back at Fischer, who only gave him a little nod. “I’d love to go to the station right now. That bust was a lovely treasure, I’d like to help as much as I can.”

Cielo frowned at his shoes. He waited until Richard walked out and for Azarov to trail behind him until he lifted his eyes, yet their eyes met all the same. He could see the slight quirk of a smile on his lips. Cielo gritted his teeth at the image, suddenly feeling annoyed by the smug expression.

“I would really love to help,” the guy said as he kept smiling at Cielo. “Shall we go then? Mr. Fischer, I believe we’ll talk later.”

 

*

 

The journey to the station had been scarce with words. Even Richard, who seemed to always have something to say, did not say anything. He just drove and concentrated on the road, the radio playing some obnoxious Russian pop in the lowest setting. Cielo pretended like he wasn’t tempted to watch the guy on the backseat from where he was sitting.

After they arrived at the police station, they headed to the interrogation—or rather _questioning_ —room at once. Once Azarov walked in though, Richard nudged at Cielo before he could walk into the room. “I’m going to get coffee, you go ahead and question him first,” and being the Richard that he _knew_ , he walked away without confirming whether the rookie was comfortable questioning the witness alone.

Unable to say something that could prevent Richard from walking away, or rather making up a reason that could explain his anxiety, Cielo took a deep breath before he pushed the door open. He was greeted by the view of the blue-eyed man leaning against the table, chin on his hand, a small, practiced _but_ polite smile trained on his lips. Cielo could feel his own jaw tensing as he closed the door.

“I’m very sorry to interrupt your conversation with Mr. Fischer,” he said as he sat down across of Azarov. Their eyes caught and at once Cielo lowered it, avoiding the gaze trickling on his skin as much as possible. He opened the laptop he had snatched away from his table and opened the security footage that they had received from Kurkov.

 It was showing the last ten minutes before the bust disappeared, where Azarov was seen loitering near the bust, staring at it for a few seconds. He walked away after that, and the room was empty for a minute before a clear interference was shown, static that attacked the screen before the footage was back again. The difference was this time the bust was missing.

“We would like to know if you had seen something unusual. Your statement will be very helpful for our investigation.”

“Was this a magical interference?” Azarov was still observing the video from where he was sitting.

“We believe so.”

“I’m afraid I didn’t see anything unusual, so I don’t know how I’d help,” Azarov pulled away from the desk and leaned back to his seat. He seemed like he was deep in thought. Cielo was only capable of frowning at the sight, sick of the theatricals. He felt like it was pointless. Although the video was enough evidence for them to investigate Azarov, it wasn’t like they would find anything. “Oh, if it’s anything unusual… maybe you should check the back of the display. I think I saw some marks on it, but I thought it was dust, so my eyes just glanced over.”

Cielo sighed a little and switched the windows in the screen into a picture taken on the scene of the crime. “Is this what you saw?”

It was a magical mark—a rune of some sort, but the sort that their magical crimes department had problem solving the meaning of. It wasn’t in their database, which made it seemed like it was only children’s scrawl instead of something valuable. It might have been just a jape to them anyway.

“Yes. I’m not so sure what this symbol means, though, Mr…?” the question was thrown into the air.

Cielo stared at him in confusion for a moment before realizing that Azarov was asking for his name. “Orlov. Cielo Orlov.”

“Mr. Orlov,” Azarov smiled at him. “Eagle, huh? It suits your eyes.”

 

*

 

“Well, that was pointless.”

They watched as Azarov Eluded away from the station, him with a cup of shitty coffee from a coffee machine that was located outside of their cafeteria, and Richard with a bar of Mars bars hanging from his mouth. He had his arms crossed in front of him.

Cielo sighed as he turned to his partner. “Why not join me in questioning the guy?”

“I joined you. I just didn’t join you in the room.” Richard displayed his shit-eating grin as he bit off a piece of the candy bar. “God, that guy has a _nice_ ass.” He was quiet for a moment as Cielo rolled his eyes, only to add, almost like an afterthought: “Pity it was _you_ he was flirting with. I didn’t want to bother both of you.”

Cielo choked on the coffee at once. He hunched over, holding to his chest as the burn of the hot liquid felt like fire on his throat. Being gay in Russia wasn’t ideal, but after seeing Cielo kiss his boyfriend at the front of the station early in the morning when no one was around, he found out that his partner was gay too—Cielo had no idea _why_ he was in the station at that hour in the first place. Richard even invited him to the underground gay bars around Moscow after finding that, which Cielo rejected at once, flustered.

“Jesus, don’t worry, I won’t tell your boyfriend,” Richard snorted as he walked back inside. “Speaking of which, you haven’t introduced me to your boyfriend!”

 _Asshole_. Cielo could feel the blood pooling in his face, knowing that if his boyfriend had found out that Azarov was flirting with him, it wouldn’t be the biggest problem he possessed. No, there was something else. Something far, much troublesome than that—something that related to his boyfriend.

 

*

 

Mountains of paper works flooded his brain as he Eluded back to his family home. He rubbed his tired shoulder, feeling fatigue clinging on him like a wet coat: heavy and tiresome. He managed to finish enough not to have bring it back home, but he knew there was more waiting for him the next morning. Especially considering that the stolen bust case wouldn’t get closure, Cielo knew he was fucked with more paperwork.

He put his messenger bag on the ground as he made his way to the couch, only to be greeted by another squishy, warm figure that was also lying on the couch. He would have scrambled to get up if he had no idea who he just flopped on.

“Tired?” the voice asked near his ear. He didn’t answer, only hugged the figure, breathing in the smell of expensive cologne and musk from the nape of his boyfriend’s neck.

“Thanks to you,” he muttered against his boyfriend’s skin. He lifted his head and stared right to the blue eyes in front of him. Sergei Azarov smiled at him in that lilt of charming smile he had before pecking his lips. “No, that isn’t enough. I’m tired. Can we just sleep together tonight?”

“Anything for my Sky,” Sergei stroked his cheek before they got up.

They made their way to bed, Cielo removing his jacket and changing into a ratty grey hoodie. He could feel Sergei’s stare lingering on his skin, which made him slightly flush. But he didn’t say anything. Sergei would _want_ sex, as always; he was like a rabbit who wanted to fuck a lot, but Cielo honestly wasn’t in the mood. Luckily Sergei always understood the signs. Though if he kisses his neck right now…

“Don’t space out. Come here,” Sergei opened his arms.

Complying, he jumped to the bed and found himself being embraced by those strong, muscular arms. It felt warm. It was like an oasis in his desert of paperwork. Liberating as it was, though, at the thought, his mind was already crawling back to the anxiety of having too many work to do. _Especially_ since his partner spent most of his working hours playing Pokémon below his deck.

“Don’t space out,” Sergei repeated. He pulled him into a kiss and Cielo gave into it, feeling like he was floating, forgetting his work at once. “Stay here,” Sergei moved his lips to Cielo’s neck, and it took half of his energy to pull away.

“Not tonight,” he said, “Let me sleep?”

Yes, we were back at Cielo’s real problem: the fact that he only took his job as a cop because he actually had no idea what to do after graduation, and the suspect of the case he was working on was his _boyfriend_.

This was his biggest problem.

For now.


End file.
